


If This Is It

by stuffilikeiwrite



Series: The Unexpected Cannot Be Expected [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Bi Holmes, Canon Compliant, Drug Use OFC, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gen, Holmes Attempting To Ponder and Deal With His Emotions, It Is Holmes, It's Working So-So, John Watson Will Never Know, Johnlock - Freeform, Jude Law Watson, M/M, Movie: Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2011), Onesided Johnlock, Or Ace And Biromantic If You Want, POV Sherlock Holmes, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poor Holmes Is Never Happy, RDJ Holmes - Freeform, Sad, Set During Canon, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffilikeiwrite/pseuds/stuffilikeiwrite
Summary: He had hoped to leave Watson out of this. Had hoped that as long as Watson was officially married, presumably no longer available company for their rambunctious crime fighting sprees; he’d be out of the equation. Of course, Holmes hadknownit was a fool’s prayer, had known it’d fall of deaf ears.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Unexpected Cannot Be Expected [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808986
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	If This Is It

It was unnatural.

Holmes knew as much; had mulled the shameful happenstance over in his mind again and again enough to reach that conclusion. Approached it from every angle, attempted to make sense of it. It was the one riddle he could not crack, the one truth he could not reason with. The one fact he could not deduce away, could not blame on any outside factors. This came from within; a merciless sickness eating away at his soul if such a thing was possible.

He blinked slowly, eyelids heavy in the presence of the faint glow of pale moonlight through wispy night sky clouds. Its dull light welcoming, homely even. He was too tired to sleep, too wide awake to think clearly. His head uncharacteristically airy; thoughts a jumbled mess. In case of such a tumultuous mental state of unrule, Holmes would more often than not find himself with a syringe buried in his veins. This time, however, he was not in the apartment. This time, he could not clear his stilted intellect with the bliss of a cocaine induced high.

He was trapped in a drafty, moving train car halfway across eastern Europe. Lying flat on his belly atop unserviceable, cold and dirty freighting iron. Body caked in dried blood, sweat, mud, ashes, and gunpowder spatter. Fresh stitches itching and throbbing against his injured chest, his ankle where it pulled the patched up skin taut together. Neatly bandaged by callused, firm hands. The imprint of nimble fingers still present on Holmes’ battered skin; the ugly red and blue knitted scarf the newly established Mrs. Watson had made for her husband serving as a makeshift sling for his wounded right arm.

Holmes turned his gaze to the side. 

The ragtag gang of indigenous companions, part of Simza’s travelling band, sleeping atop the somewhat comfortable bags - most likely containing coals and seed judging by their smell, size and girth. Two leverances stacked on top of each other to save space and money. Their consumers none the wiser. Simza’s head rested atop one of her comrades’ broad shoulders, Holmes more determined than ever to track down her long lost brother in this race against time. Desperate for retribution in this battle of the minds against Moriarty, whom he had perhaps underestimated to his own detriment.

Watson lay by his side. Out cold in a deep slumber, that soft ever so familiar snore a soothing presence of a lullaby. 

Holmes swallowed hard against his dry mouth, his gruff throat. He had hoped to leave Watson out of this. Had hoped that as long as Watson was officially married, presumably no longer available company for their rambunctious crime fighting sprees; he’d be out of the equation. Of course, Holmes had _known_ it was a fool’s prayer, had known it’d fall of deaf ears. Had known Moriarty was well aware of Watson’s importance; sadistically planning a fittingly gruesome demise for the good doctor. 

But Holmes had dared to _hope_. Somewhere deep down, he’d known Irene was already lost before his nemesis could confirm the suspicion. He dared not take another leap of faith, and leave Watson’s fate up to higher powers. Not when last time he’d gambled on faith, he’d lost sorely.

Watson should be on his honeymoon in Brighton; should be sharing a warm and comfortable bed of down duvets with his wife. Should be happy, should be sated, should be growing ever more _haplessly besotted_ with his beloved Mrs. Mary Watson. 

Instead, he laid sprawled beneath a smudged makeshift quilt, made of the remnants of Simza’s last shawl. The poor excuse for a blanket had been intended for Holmes as his injuries were greater, Watson had argued. Yet, as soon as Holmes was the only man of their company remaining conscious, he’d wrapped it cautiously around the good doctor’s shivering frame. The small grunt of appreciation, the stilling of his trembling limbs had assured Holmes he’d made the right choice. Watson had always been prone to freezing in the wake of physical exhaustion and strain. 

A familiar pang in his chest, tugging and pulling at his heart strings; Holmes watched Watson scrunch up his nose and silently mouth something intelligible. The bags under his eyes slightly more pronounced, his forehead creasing for a moment. Then nothing but calm, as he settled back into peaceful sleep. Two syllables, and with a sad, forlorn sigh Holmes took a moment to fool himself into believing Watson had been mumbling _his_ name, in place of Mary’s.

It was his eternally ill fated luck, wasn’t it?

Born into a world that didn’t understand him, into a society that viewed him as more of a curiosity than an intellectual. More animal than man. Fated to suffer at the whim of illegal, indecent affections. Holmes breathed in deep, humming softly as he exhaled. Watched Watson’s chest rise and fall with each breath; noted his skinned knuckles, his disheveled moustache and hair. The dark stubble, the bruise running along the length of his collarbone. The once white sleeves of his button down speckled in red and black dots, equal amounts grime and blood.

Holmes had never known what longing entailed. Had never grasped the concept of yearning for another person, not even in his adolescence.

Indeed, with Irene there had been something playful and interesting. Something simple as a game, likening another case to deduce and solve. The mystery of womankind unraveling before his eyes. He’d been hunting a perpetrator, in a sense. The relationship had never been conventional, but it had been appropriate in the eyes of social construct. Never consummated; both of them knowing it never would be. Neither would ever take that final step - the thrill was the chase and the ride. Not an eventual checkmate. Even now, when Irene was no longer with them; Holmes was fairly certain he did not regret that decision.

But Irene had never made him _want_. 

She had never made him a slave to sentiment. Never so deeply, never so desperately, never with such fervent abandon. 

Holmes grimaced, squeezing his dark eyes shut but failing to disperse the memory of Watson looking into Mary’s eyes with such wholehearted dedication. In that one moment, as Watson placed the wedding band upon his wife’s slender finger - Holmes had found himself wishing, if for but a moment, that Watson would have met his gaze with such conviction. It was only then, that Holmes had understood the irony of what he was to be saddled with.

When he opened his bleary eyes; Watson had not moved. One arm propped under his head as a makeshift pillow, quilt draped over his frame. 

It was only a glance, a subconscious natural tendency. Beyond rational thought, beyond his control, as Holmes’ eyes darted instinctively towards the parted pink lips. Swollen, one corner still scabbed over and bruised. He frowned. 

Watson had kissed many women before Mary; Holmes had observed it transpiring with careless disinterest. Watson had gone to bed with other women before Mary. Even then, although there had been a sting in his chest he could not pinpoint, Holmes had dismissed it as inconsequential. A trivial past time activity, much as Holmes himself would simultaneously indulge in highs that made him forget what was reality, and what was the haze of intoxication. Afterwards, he’d never recall much of the noises. He’d consider it a blessing to remain purposely ignorant, although he’d never known whatfor. 

The women would disappear, before Holmes ever learned to memorize their facial features. He presumed Watson didn’t, either. They all looked the same to him anyhow.

Except _Mary_ did not go away. 

She loomed like a phantom; the very thought of her existence oppressive and intrusive. Holmes had never found women who were not Irene captivating; alas, even _The Woman_ paled in comparison to Watson. 

Watson, who weighed his future with Mary by his side above a future alongside his best friend. Watson, who would settle for a life as a domesticated husband and father, kept on a tight leash rather than drinking down the freedom of serving merely his own whims. Holmes understood none of it.

No, that wasn’t _entirely_ true.

He did not comprehend Watson’s dedication to this befuddling minx of a popsy; this frail creature with her fair hair and eyes who had stepped into their lives to put a solid wall between them. But Holmes found he did understand _her_ motives. He understood _her_ desire to keep Watson always by her side; to depend on him for comfort, for distraction, for companionship. For better or for worse.

It mattered not what _he_ thought of the arrangement, did it.

Hesitantly, Holmes let his uninjured hand slide across the few inches of empty space separating him from Watson’s form. He pursed his lips, that overpowering drowning sensation behind his breast bone setting off each and every alarm bell in his head. Still, as he breathed in the faint, lingering traces of Watson’s expensive cologne behind the overpowering tang of drying seeds and bodily odours - he only stilled once his fingertips carefully brushed Watson’s exposed, balled fist. The gashed skin of the doctor’s rough knuckles pressing briefly into the soft curve of his cheek.

It was barely a graze, as Holmes simply ran the pad of his thumb over the damaged area. He flinched in response when Watson winced at the touch. Thankfully, the doctor only stirred without waking. It was a warning sign, Holmes deduced as his rational brain kicked back into gear. He realized he’d allowed his mind to go frightfully blank for a time. Some faraway part of him might admit he enjoyed the peace, as his eyelids grew ever heavier. Relaxing, he kept his outstretched hand near Watson’s, like an open life line. Allowing just the briefest, faintest touch of skin. 

It was not enough. _Would never be_. But it was all he had, the only bridge he could cross without scrutiny. He sank into the sensation of Watson’s warm breaths coming in slow puffs, against his own cool flesh.

The longing was ever present. Never diminishing, never relenting. Destructive, ravenous; unyielding. So near, and yet so far. 

A couple of inches, and the distance between their physical bodies might be breached. But the boundaries of morality could never be subdued. Holmes wouldn’t have wished to drag Watson with him into hell anyhow. Despite common assumptions, he could never corrupt such grace in good faith. 

With an exasperated groan, Holmes finally allowed his eyes to slide shut in preparation for sleep. His body ached; every bruise, every scratch, every injury making its presence known a thousand times over. Demanding attention. His head pounding, his pulse hammering through his veins. The remnants of the previous adrenaline rush. The effort of attempting a peaceful slumber would be futile, he already knew, but at least some rest would serve him well. Watson was safe for now, he needn’t be as watchful.

As he drifted off into a half slumber; somewhere between the blissful unconsciousness and a wide awake state, Holmes’ mind wandered to plunge into deprivation. In his fractured dreams there was a warm gentle palm pressed to his cheek, cupping his jaw. The pad of a thumb caressing his stubbled, sunkissed features. A fond, sly smile that Holmes held so dear. Handsome, tender green eyes - a twinkle in them which never failed to make Holmes’ heart racing. In the real world, the one he would soon be returning back to; Watson had regarded Mary similarly with those same soulful eyes.

Now, instead of Mary; it was Holmes finding himself faltering and flustered. The visage of Watson in such close proximity, of his best - _his only_ \- friend leaning in. Head tilted slightly sideways. Holmes going nearly cross eyed, the anticipation coursing through his blood burning brighter than any high he’d ever experienced once he realized what was happening. A gasp of surprise even in the wake of expectation, as Watson’s sweet lips touched his. Pliable, molding perfectly together. The brush of a well kempt moustache prickling Holmes’ upper lip; the wet sensation as Watson tasted him. A whisper of Watson’s name swallowed into yet another, deeper kiss. A delicious shudder slithering down Holmes’ spine.

“Holmes?”

Holmes grunted, blinking his eyes rapidly; the fog of the abrupt wake up call still clouding his mind with its haze. He was however acutely aware of a firm, steady hand grasping at his upper arm giving a reassuring squeeze in between determined shaking motions. Once Holmes’ dark eyes would focus, he found himself staring straight into Watson’s concerned face. He swallowed thickly, his heart leaping into his throat. 

“Holmes, are you alright?” said the doctor, tone low so as not to wake their company Holmes’ presumed; although he detected a hint of worry behind it.

“Hm? Yes. Yes, quite so, old chap,” Holmes nodded for a reply, voice a hoarse grumble. “How so?”

“Do forgive me, then. You were thrashing about, judging by your injuries I found myself wanting to be certain there’s no alarm.”

“Very well. As you can see, I am perfectly alright. Do go back to sleep, Mother Hen,” said Holmes with a yawn and a lopsided grin although the tease lacked its usual bite, taking the opportunity offered to place his hand atop Watson’s and give it a squeeze of appreciation in turn. “You needn’t fret for me.”

“I fret however much I see fit, Old Cock. You already had the audacity to go into cardiac arrest on my watch once today, I need no more imminent frights.”

Holmes for once found he had no retort; no wise, sly remark to toss back at his friend. 

“Then I shall promise you no more frights.”

His voice quivered ever so slightly, his honest fondness bleeding through while he let his outstretched hand reach for the other man, as a silent gesture of appreciation. Ignoring the frantic beating of his heart against the inside of his ribcage; and the simmering sensation of guilt when he was once more reminded of the fact that Watson should be sharing tonight and every night to come with his new _wife_ , rather than his eccentric friend. Watson was only here because of Holmes’ own unhealthy, deviant emotional attachment.

Blocking out the guilt that thought carried with it; Holmes offered a gentle, tender caress to the side of the doctor’s worn face without restraint. An apology of sorts, he hoped. 

He lingered just long enough to memorize the prickle of stubble, and found it closely matched the ghost of his faded dream. Then, he withdrew. A part of him almost expected a disgruntled berating; almost expected Watson to see through his facade, to take note of the impure implications behind the caress.

At first, the good doctor’s face contorted in a confused frown, before softening into the ever so predictable headshake and eye roll that told Holmes he was off the hook. It earned Holmes another soft squeeze to the bicep, followed by a soft ruffle to his unruly mop of dark hair. Then, the incident was over as Watson settled back down into the most comfortable position possible. Clearly intent on going back to sleep; something Holmes could hardly blame him for.

Still, the sinking sensation at the pit of his belly turned the entire moment sour. Swimming against the tide, Holmes decided stubbornly that he would take all he could get. This was not about him, not about his own twisted affections. 

“ _Sleep_ , Holmes.”

“Only if you go first,” Holmes shot back, watching the corner of Watson’s lips twist upwards in slight amusement as he huffed.

Then, there was only silence. 

The solemn quiet of late night with the exception of the railways tidal thumping beneath the cart wheels, and the thumping of Holmes’ own heartbeats in his ears matching it. For an instant, a shameful burning sensation behind his tired eyes had him gritting his teeth. Forcing it away into oblivion before it could become more than just a taunt. But its significance remained ever so clear. 

Ever so overpowering.

_Drawn like a moth to the flame_ , the saying went. 

Drawn to that which kills. Drawn to that which attracts. Drawn to that which offers no comfort in turn. Deadly, yet alluring in its unrelenting lethality. A fallacy, a malfunction of the brain. Overriding all common sense, all mundane decency and better judgment. 

Holmes threw his left arm across his face; focusing on the throbbing, pulsating pain of his left shoulder to block out the sensory overload. It could not hold a candle to the hollowing craving that had settled for grinding his insides to shreds. So many times had he wondered what affections towards another would surmount to, in his naivety. Pondered its purpose, eager to perhaps one day study its effect on a man’s sanity.

If this was it, if _this_ was the emotional response Holmes had been curious to survey; he no longer wanted any part of it. 

The answer to the question was not worth the price of admission.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is definitely becoming a series. I'm really enjoying writing this, even though the people alive in this fandom are few and far between. Anyhow, hope this is appreciated! I cannot for the life of me write anything that is not canon compliant with good conscience for this ship it seems, so it's doomed to be tragic... 
> 
> Still, hope it works! Enjoy!


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